Whys And Wherefores
by Lawliet Holmes
Summary: Sherlock Holmes thought he'd left the world of his work behind, but a chance encounter with prodigious psychiatrist Dr Hannibal Lecter will thrust him back into the world of serial murders, organised crime, and twisted psychopaths... but this time, he's on the other side. Rated M for Graphic violence, cannibalism, and probably sex references and swearing.


**1 - In Which A Higher Functioning Sociopath And Former Consulting Detective Encounters A Rather Extraordinary Psychiatrist**

(Listen to: Body And Soul by Joe Pass)

The sudden relocation from the busiest city in Britain to the quiet, uneventful life of a country village is not a change that anybody would find particularly easy. Where there were once busy streets, taxi-cabs on every corner, people everywhere you opened your eyes and the background hum of millions of other lives being lived, there's now long, winding roads lined by willow trees, large, old houses with large gates, open fields, and the inescapable, painfully bare sound of nature. Even the most flexible of Londoners would find it difficult moving from the capital city of England to the quiet, rural village of Lesser Wilting, in Wiltshire; how much harder, then, would it be for a Londoner such as Sherlock Holmes?

News travelled around Lesser Wilting faster than it took the elusive Roadrunner to evade Wile E. Coyote, and as such, when the new tenant of the abandoned Heatherton House arrived at his new home, half a mile outside of the village, with a single white van carrying his personal effects, the majority of the village knew about it before tea. Of course, there was a great deal of curiosity aroused in the women of Lesser Wilting (the men, either old, retired gentlemen or Upper-Middle Class solicitors, lawyers and the like, did not care much for what happened in their village), and one woman who had seen the man described him excitedly to her friend as 'a real man of mystery… like he's got something to hide'. This did, of course, prompt a multitude of 'housewarming calls' by middle-aged, frustrated women attempting to enter his house with the pretence of bringing Shepherd's Pie, but these were rebuffed with a few quiet words and an emotionless smile, which intrigued them at first, but then grew boring.

Which was exactly the intended effect. Sherlock Holmes, even after all this time, was not one for company… especially not now.

As he walked along the willow-roofed, winding uphill road that lead to the practically ancient country house of which he was the sole inhabitant, Sherlock Holmes cut a strange figure, and a far different one to the figure he cut two years ago, back in the days in which he was the world's only consulting detective, and lived at 221B Baker Street. As he made his way up the hill, aided by a polished, wooden cane, there was something innately different about the way that he walked. Whereas before, he was constantly on the move, with a strong, deliberate stride that couldn't wait to be as far away from wherever he was standing as possible, now it seemed like movement was a labour. He pulled himself along, with the aid of his cane, a slight limp visible in his right leg, and he was slower, as if he really didn't care whether or not he reached his destination. He was dressed for the country, in sturdy walking boots, thick, loose trousers and a thick, sturdy jacket with pockets and leather patches sewn onto the elbows. His black, wavy hair, which was still as unkempt as ever, was now streaked with silver – not a lot, but it was certainly noticeable. Salt-and-pepper stubble lined his jaw, as well, that he intended to grow into a full beards (beards seemed to put the local women off a little more). He looked older than he'd ever looked, a fact that was made completely evident by his face. Not only were the lines there more prominent, but it was something about the way he held his head, and the look in his eyes, that made him look several years older than the forty years he had to his name.

He felt fifty. He felt tired, weary, and old, and had done ever since he'd woken up in that hospital bed and been told, not by a Doctor but by Inspector Lestrade, that John Watson was dead.

Sherlock hadn't even tried to carry on without him. He had gone home, smoked every cigarette in his apartment, and then put a gun in his mouth, absolutely intent on dying (he should have died. It should have been him.). In the end, and to his complete surprise, it was his brother, Mycroft, who saved him. Even as Sherlock had the gun in his mouth, his big brother had sat him down, poured him an enormous glass of gin, and talked to him. At first it was nothing; just inconsequential, immaterial babble about his job and what he had done during the week, but all delivered in a calm, rational and gentle tone – one that, even though he didn't consciously realise it, resonated with the part of Sherlock's sub consciousness that remembered the days when Mycroft had been his best friend and mentor, back when he was a small child. The simple flow of words from his brother's mouth had a calming influence, and while he didn't put the gun down, he removed it from his mouth, and after a few more minutes, Mycroft had started talking about John and about Sherlock. About how he understood that Sherlock would never stop blaming himself, and how he would obviously not want to continue his job. And that even though the British Government sorely needed his services, Sherlock was his brother, and he should retire from Detective work regardless of his importance to the Government. Sherlock had, at first, been surprised, as Mycroft talked about him perhaps moving to the country and getting a normal job, but eventually had ended up crying in his brother's arms.

And so Sherlock had moved to the country. Mycroft had outright bought him a large country home, and paid all expenses for him, and had even visited during the first week to check how he was. But then he returned to London, and Sherlock Holmes began his new, quiet, and utterly meaningless existence as a Post Office manager. It was a new start, yes… but he still couldn't forget.

Heatherton House was a large, old house, with a wooden gate, a large, overgrown garden that had once been the playground of three children, and an old, stone porch with white-painted pillars, leading into the house. It had high ceilings, cobwebs matted like tangled hair in the corners, where the flies that were so common in Lesser Wilting would become trapped; helpless as they watched with kaleidoscope eyes the King of that perfect trap inch ever closer, taking it's time, savouring his victim's last moments, before it paralyzed them, wrapped them in silk, and left them, unable to move, until such a time as he decided to put them out of their misery. The bottom floor was open, with few walls, and the lounge, the dining room, and the kitchen were all one; the previous owner had obviously been a fan of open plan houses. And as such, there were fewer corners than there would normally be. Sherlock knew the spider that inhabited each corner; he had studied them and their movements through a magnifying glass, memorised their habits. He had grown fond of watching them rule over their little kingdoms, and had positioned his armchair facing the corner where his favourite, a fat, large house spider who ruled a kingdom that stretched almost a metre outwards from the corner, lived, so that he could watch it through the small telescope that he kept.

He was quite aware that he was probably going mad, but he didn't mind so much at this point. It didn't matter.

But as Sherlock rounded the top of the hill and walked up to his gate, he noticed a few tiny little changes. He didn't want to – he had done his best, over the last three years of rural life, to 'switch off' his analytical brain – but the changes were there, and Sherlock Holmes always noticed changes, whether he liked it or not. The bolt on the gate, whilst still drawn, was in a different position to the one he had left it in (deliberately only half in), and the piece of paper he always left caught in the flap of the post-slot was still there. Somebody had been into his garden, and it wasn't the postman. Sherlock climbed over the gate (if he ended up having to chase an intruder out, he didn't want the gate open), and walked over to the porch. There were small deposits of mud there that weren't there before, and a broken blade of grass; somebody has stood there, after walking on the grass at the side of the road coming up the other side of the hill. Not somebody from the main village… and the door was undisturbed, but there were new smudges on the polished handle; somebody had tried to open it, but hadn't broken it down…

Sherlock sniffed the air, and to his great surprise he smelt the smell of something cooking; some form of meat, and there was a sauce cooking at well. Spices…

Sherlock moved quickly around the perimeter of his house, and tried the side door – the one that had been the old front door about fifteen years ago. It was closed, but true enough, when Sherlock tried the handle, it was unlocked. Very, very slowly, he opened it, making as little noise as possible, and stepped inside, feet carefully finding the spots he knew would produce the least amount of creaking. That creaking had been one of the main selling points of the house; that way he could hear everything that went on, and from that deduce who was inside. The cooking really did smell delicious, but Sherlock didn't care much for that at the moment. Moving through into the back porch, he silently reversed his grip on his cane, so that he was holding it like a cudgel, and then, speeding up his pace, strode into the kitchen, cane raised ready to attack.

From his place by the stove, over a frying-pan full of a delicious smelling meat, a man slightly shorter than Sherlock turned around, wiping his hands on an apron (one of Sherlock's; a Christmas present sent to him by Molly Hooper the year before – 'Kiss The Cook') and smiled.

"Careful there… you might hurt somebody."

He spoke with a cultured, upper class accent, but Sherlock's acute ear picked up an edge to certain words that sounded like it came from Eastern Europe; possibly Romania, or from thereabouts.

Sherlock moved further into the kitchen, eyes quickly clocking the position of the two knives that the man had been using, and then looked properly at the man.

"I've seen you before", he said.

"Why are you in my house?"

He was a slim man, with an angular face and brown hair slicked into a comb over. He was dressed in an exquisite suit, minus the jacket – pressed, black trousers, a black waistcoat and tie, and a silk, plum-coloured shirt. His hair was quite obviously greying rapidly, and there were creases in his forehead and lines around his mouth that put his age at about fifty. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing large, veiny hands and arms, and as Sherlock looked at them, the hands intertwined, fingers interlocking and clenching, as if praying. Sherlock had seen him once or twice in the village; he had looked around the Post Office once, and had passed him once, heading towards the Shepherd's Rest, the local pub.

The man offered up a friendly smile, and glanced towards the pan, turning around and moving the contents about with a wooden spoon.

"I often drive past your house on the way into the village, or when going into town, and today, as I was walking up to the village, I saw your gate open, your back door also.I knew that you would be working. So I decided to help, and prevent the burglary of your house."

Sherlock lowered the cane slightly, still keeping it at the ready.

"And did you prevent the burglary of my house?"

The man chuckled, and put the spoon down, reaching out across the surface. Sherlock tensed, but the man's hand completely ignored the knife and instead grabbed a small jar of paprika from the spice rack, shaking some into the pan and rolling the meat in it with the spoon.

"Yes… Before he even broke anything, would you believe it? I took the liberty of returning your television to the living room, and plugging it back in for you; I hope you don't mind. Oh, and your post is on the coffee table."

Sherlock's eyes darted around the large space that was his lounge, living room and kitchen, looking for signs of a struggle. His eyes were drawn to a damp spot on the lounge carpet, and the man smiled apologetically.

"I apologise; that will dry soon. I borrowed the 1001 from your cleaning cupboard to scrub the blood out of the carpet. There wasn't an awful lot, but I had to clean it before it stained."

Sherlock looked around again, and then turned to the man, still frying the meat and casting an eye over the sauce in the saucepan.

"And where is the burglar?"

He gave a small, apologetic smile, seemingly embarrassed, and turned back around, wringing his hands together.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do with him… so I wrapped him up in cling film, and…"

He looked at the large chest freezer in the small, dark porch leading to the garage. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, and the man quickly laughed.

"Oh, don't worry; I moved all the food into the other freezer, and nothing's going to leak into the freezer from the body; I was very thorough."

Sherlock eyed him warily, brain already deducing everything he could about this man.

"You killed him?" he inquired, and the man shrugged elaborately.

"What else was I supposed to do? He was going to hit me with the TV."

"How did you do it?"

The man moved the meat around a little bit more and turned the gas down a little bit.

"Oh, nothing fancy; I picked up one of the umbrellas on the way in."

Sherlock slowly lifted one eyebrow, looking at the lounge and picturing the scene.

"And?"

The man shrugged.

"I hit him with it… Oh, you want detail? Okay."

He wiped his hands on the apron, stirred the sauce once, and moved towards Sherlock, pointing to the longue.

"I had a friend once who could reconstruct this kind of thing just by seeing the victim… a genius. He was coming through the archway into the front porch, so first of all I poked him in the eye to stun him, and them I hit him about the chest. Fortunately, the TV fell on top of him, so instead of breaking, it just broke his ribs and neck. The blood was from his eyeball, which I may have forced into his brain."

Sherlock nodded.

"Neat… Thank you, I suppose. You sound like you've done this before."

The man shrugged, walking back into the kitchen.

"A few times… though you're no stranger to it either, I presume."

Sherlock eyed him with curiosity.

"What makes you say that?"

The man didn't look at him, instead turning off the gas and removing the pan from the hob, tipping the meat onto a chopping board.

"It's in the way you move. You've obviously lost somebody close to you, but the slight stiffness of the arms? The eye movements down and to the left? The trembling in your right hand, and also the way that you lifted that cane when you walked in on me. You've killed before, and you're guilty about it."

Sherlock snorted.

"Oh really? And I suppose you're an expert, are you?"

"Actually yes."

The man turned around, wiped his hands once more, and then held out his right one.

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter. I'm a psychiatrist, specialising in behavioural psychology and criminal profiling. And you must be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock switched his cane to his left hand and shook the hand offered to him.

"How do you know my… the post, of course."

Hannibal nodded, and Sherlock gently put the cane down, leaning it against the side.

"And… how did you go from killing my burglar to cooking in my kitchen."

Hannibal smiled, and looked at the meat.

"I thought you'd have guessed. I found the lungs in the freezer when I was clearing it out, and was so excited to find a kindred spirit that I decided to cook dinner for us. I hope you don't mind, it's just it's so rare to find somebody who shares my appetites."

Sherlock's mouth actually opened.

"Kindred sp… Those were human lungs."

Hannibal nodded, the grin on his face falling slightly.

"Well, yes…"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, no… Doctor Lecter, those were for an experiment!"

"Oh…"

Hannibal looked down at the ground for a second, and then gave a slight chuckle.

"Please don't run too fast…"

Suddenly, he moved, darting forwards and kicking Sherlock's cane away from him, pushing Sherlock away before scrabbling for the cane and picking it up.

Sherlock made to go for one of the knives, but Hannibal was too close.

"Don't! We can talk, and work this out."

Sherlock took a look at the cane, then the knife, and then he nodded.

"Of course."

Hannibal, cane still in his hand, walked over to the side, and turned off the gas still heating the sauce.

"Shall we sit?"

Sherlock gestured to the living room.

"Please"

(Author's Note: Hello guys, it's been a while since I've written anything, but today I discovered Hannibal, and found it so deliciously clever that I just had to write about it. I got the idea for the Sherlock and Hannibal crossover, with the human body parts in the fridge, from Tumblr, but the rest is my design. There should be more of this to come. Hope you like.)


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